Antigone
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: A retelling of Sophocles's famous play Antigone.


The battle was over, and she could rest.

The Argive army had retreated at midnight, just after the deaths of her brothers. Polynices and Eteocles were gone, and Ismene couldn't quite find it in herself to worry about the edict that had been issued by Creon. It was too soon for her sorrows. Now, for the moment, she was just painfully exhausted.

Ismene was leaning on her sister, one arm around Antigone's shoulder for support. She needed it after the mayhem that had characterized the last several days in her memory. "I'm sorry," Ismene murmured, catching the look on her sister's face.

The furrowed brow and pursed lips were all too familiar: it was Antigone at her most put-upon. Actually, Ismene considered, it was rather similar to the way she'd looked for the entire morning, even when they were at the temple, with all the other women and children. The only time Antigone had softened all day was when the end of the war was announced. Moments after the herald had left, an old woman reached out with her gnarled hands to grasp the faded blue hem of Antigone's skirt. The gown had once belonged to Iocasta, and the blind woman seemed to recognize the fabric. "My lady Iocasta..." the woman had whispered as reverently as if she had been faced with Pallas Athene. (Ismene privately entertained the notion that her sister slightly resembled Athena, save for the oft-praised flashing gray eyes and the patience. Actually, hadn't Father once proclaimed that Antigone had the blessing, glory and temperament of their lady Hera, the Queen of the Heavens?)

"Don't apologize." Antigone replied, though she released her grip on Ismene's upper arm. Ismene breathed a sigh of relief. Antigone's nails, short as they were kept, had been digging almost cruelly into her flesh. Her sister hadn't been aware of it. She also seemed unaware of the harshness of her next words as well. "Although I guess it is your fault you're getting so heavy."

This was a common remark, but Ismene did not have a response. She had been a little lame in her left leg for years now - it was the result of a childhood accident. It was curious that she could not quite recall the incident beyond very brief flashes. Antigone, just three or four then, screaming. The invasive smell of cypress tress. The thump of foot soldiers' sandals against the cobbles. (Why?) She had walked with a slight limp ever since. Often she could manage without aid, but on cool mornings the pain was so intense that even her walking stick was not enough.

She looked down at herself. Her feet were bare and covered with a thin layer of dust. She had given her gilded sandals to a girl of twelve who had had none. She smiled, recalling the girl's reaction. Her anklets were brass, but she wore just one. The others had been buried under a shrub in the courtyard by herself when Eteocles had made the decree that brass and bronze was to be melted down to make armor for the soldiers.

Ismene had lied, claiming that she had few trinkets. As soon as he was gone, she had lit a ball of incense to Apollo, praying for the god of truth's forgiveness, and went to find her mother's jewelry. None of them had touched a thing in their parents' bedchamber, and the stillness, the layer of dust that had so quickly settled over the grand quarters bothered her. She could not take everything Mother had cherished - looking through the basket of reeds that she had woven for some occasion long ago, she realized that one of the maids must have had light fingers. Only a piece or three of the copper was gone, but Ismene had felt a surge of anger as she searched through the ornaments. She didn't take anything she wanted, just the pieces Mother had liked the most. To keep herself from temptation, she left the pieces she had always admired as a young girl - a gold headpiece with a pink chiffon veil and a strand of river pearls longer than her arm, and her parents' wedding bands - as a sacrifice to Hera.

Ismene glanced back down at herself. Antigone was right - she was plump, especially when compared to her sister, who was slender and lean. Suddenly, she wished she had her walking stick. The length of intricately-carved was usually comforting in her hand, even when she didn't need it. Suddenly overcome with weariness, she took a seat on the padded bench in front of a large window.

Antigone stopped and kneeled on the bench next to her, throwing upon the wooden shutters. Ismene made a face as the mingled stench of the dead and the smoke from the pyre fire reached her nose. Antigone stuck her head several feet out the window, bracing one hand against the frame for support. The other hand went up to shield her eyes from the strong glare of the morning son. "They're burning the dead," Antigone reported dutifully, seemingly unconcerned. She'd seen war before. It meant little to her, except for the demise of her family. "Do you think they'll burn..." She didn't say the name of her brother.

Ismene shook her head, suddenly saddened. "They can't."

"Mm," Antigone hummed in her throat, and Ismene knew her sister had chosen not to hear. Suddenly, the younger girl gasped aloud, causing a ripple of fear to course through Ismene's blood.

"What?"

"They're defiling his...!"

"Antigone, how?"

The door was already slamming behind her.


End file.
